Part 45 (1/2)

”No, please,” Melba said.

”I'm sorry. I will refund your money.”

”Mah man!” Charlie said in his ear.

”I don't care about the money,” Melba said. ”I want my Clarence. How will I find him?”

”The lottery,” Lyle said.

She looked at him. ”The lottery? I don't understand.”

”Neither do I, but that was the message that came through the clearest. Check with the New York State Lottery. Ask them about Clarence. That's all I can tell you.”

If she did that, and if Lyle's vision had been real-a big if-she'd learn about Clarence's big win. She could hire someone to track him down, maybe get a piece of whatever was left.

She wanted to find her husband, but success was going to bring her only a load of hurt.

Charlie appeared, looking at him strangely. He had to be bursting with a million questions, but couldn't ask them while Melba was here.

Lyle said, ”Kehinde will show you out and return your money. And remember what I told you: Check with the lottery. Do it today.”

Melba's expression was troubled. ”I don't understand any of this, but at least you tried to help. That's more than the police have done.” She held out her hand. ”Thank you.”

Lyle gripped her hand and stifled a gasp as a whirlwind of sensations blew through him-a brief period of anger, then sadness, then loneliness, all dragging along for a year and a half, maybe more, but certainly less than two, and then darkness-hungry darkness that gobbled up Melba and everything around her. darkness that gobbled up Melba and everything around her.

He dropped her hand quickly, as if he'd received a shock. Was that Melba's future? Was that all she had left? Less than two years?

”Good-bye,” he said and backed away.

Charlie led her toward the waiting room, giving Lyle an odd look over his shoulder.

”Ifasen is not himself today,” he told Melba.

d.a.m.n right he's not himself, Lyle thought as uneasiness did a slow crawl down his spine. But who the h.e.l.l is he?

4.

Jack will kill me when he finds out.

Gia stood before the flaking apartment door and hesitated. Against all her better judgment she'd gone back to the abductedchild.org web site and called the family number listed on Tara Portman's page. She'd asked the man who answered if he was related to Tara Portman-he said he was her father-and told him that she was a writer who did freelance work for a number of newspapers. She was planning a series of articles about children who had been missing more than ten years and could he spare a few moments to speak to her?

His answer had been a laconic, Sure, why not? He told her she could stop by any time because he was almost always in.

So now she was standing in the hot, third-floor hallway of a rundown apartment building in the far-West Forties and afraid to take the next step. She'd dressed in a trim, businessy blue suit, the one she usually wore to meetings with art directors, and carried a pad and a tape recorder in her shoulder bag.

She wished she'd asked about Mrs. Portman-was she alive, were they still married, would she be home?

The fact that Tara had written ”Mother” with no mention of her father might be significant; might say something about her relations.h.i.+p with her father; might even mean, as Jack had suggested, that he was involved in her disappearance.

But the fact remained that the ghost of Tara Portman had appeared to Gia and Gia alone, and that fact buzzed through her brain like a trapped wasp. She'd have no peace until she learned what Tara Portman wanted. That seemed to center on the mother she'd mentioned.

”Well, I've come this far,” she muttered. ”Can't stop now.”

She knocked on the door. It was opened a moment later by a man in his mid-forties. Tara's blue eyes looked out from his jowly, unshaven face; his heavy frame was squeezed into a dingy T-s.h.i.+rt with yellowed armpits and coffee stains down the front, cut-off shorts, and no shoes. His longish dark blond hair stuck out in all directions.

”What?” he said.

Gia suppressed the urge to run. ”I-I'm the reporter who called earlier?”

”Oh, yeah, yeah.” He stuck out his hand. ”Joe Portman. Come in.”

A sour mix of old sweat and older food puckered Gia's nostrils as she stepped through the doorway into the tiny apartment, but she stifled her reaction. Joe Portman hustled around, turning off the TV and picking up scattered clothing from the floor and a sagging couch; he rolled them into a ball and tossed them into a closet.

”Sorry. Didn't expect you so soon.” He turned to her. ”Coffee?”

”Thanks, no. I just had some.”

He dropped onto the couch and indicated the chair next to the TV for her.

”You know,” he said, ”this is really strange. The other night I was sitting right here, watching the Yankees, when I suddenly thought of Tara.”

Gia seated herself carefully. ”You don't usually think of her?”

He shrugged. ”For too many years she was all all I thought of. Look where it got me. Now I try not to think of her. My doctor at the clinic tells me let the past be past and get on with my life. I'm learning to do that. But it's slow. And hard.” I thought of. Look where it got me. Now I try not to think of her. My doctor at the clinic tells me let the past be past and get on with my life. I'm learning to do that. But it's slow. And hard.”

A thought struck Gia. ”What night was it when you had this sudden thought of Tara?”

”It was more than a thought, actually. For an instant, just a fraction of a second, I thought she was in the room. Then the feeling was gone.”

”But when?”

He looked at the ceiling. ”Let's see... the Yanks were playing in Oakland so it was Friday night.”

”Late?”

”Pretty. Eleven or so, I'd guess. Why?”

”Just wondering,” Gia said, hiding the chill that swept through her.

Joe Portman had sensed his daughter's presence during the earthquake under Menelaus Manor.

”Well, the reason I brought it up is, Friday night I get this feeling about Tara, then this morning you call wanting to do an article about her. Is that synchronicity or what?”

Synchronicity... not the kind of word Gia expected from someone who looked like Joe Portman.

”Life is strange sometimes,” Gia said.